Why Not Take All of Me?

Originally, I had plans to write the most brilliant, beautiful, celebration blog you’ve ever seen, almost unreal it was so optimistic. Sound like me recently? I’ve noticed my own tendency to shoot directly towards the positive, the need to head in that direction. As a result, what I’ve given off to people has been this radiating positivity. “Chemo? Couldn’t be better! Cancer? Angel Food Cake, baby.” I’ve been procrastinating writing this email, mostly because while the news I want to share is fantastic, it isn’t all.

I met with my doctors on Tuesday. Without skipping a step, Birgitta asked how soon before I wanted my central line (the rasta dread that hangs out of my chest) to come out. “If you’d like, we can take it out before your last chemo treatments for this round.” There it was. Smile, baby, YOU ARE HEALED. Without saying a word, she had told me that I was moving onto maintenance and could now take out this lanky shunt. I lit up. Dr. Glenn came in and I lit up even more. We started talking about what maintenance would look like. Beginning in just a few weeks, my chemo will be scaled back to one treatment a month (I’m currently getting four a week) plus two pills a day. The belief is that, with a few months of true rest and recovery (I don’t get to jump immediately back into my gig with Cirque du Soleil) my energy and strength should begin to increase pretty quickly. They’re unsure, but believe it may be possible in a year or so that I could ‘appear’ fully recovered, even though maintenance will last until around November 2009.

Then came the news I’m less apt to share. One of my questions was about travel. Of course it’s unrealistic for me to travel right now. That’s never been a question. Not only is my body too weak and compromised, but plain and simple, I need to be close to the hospital at all times. However, with chemo being spaced apart less frequently now than it was before, I asked if it was okay for me to start contemplating travel in the near future: a friend invited me to Mexico for a week in May, I’d love to visit some friends in Europe this summer, I’m dying to get back to Africa as soon as is humanly possible. The answer was straightforward and honest: No. Travel outside the United States is not a possibility until maintenance is finished. It’s a matter of my doctors being able to find me if they need to, or me being able to find them. It’s a question of my immune system remaining compromised throughout this entire deal, including maintenance. Any bug, any bout with food poisoning or compromised hygiene, any major virus or parasite could cause serious damage for me, especially not being somewhere where I could get proper treatment quickly. Perhaps down-the-road we can negotiate and make some small exceptions (nothing with chemo is ever set in stone), but anywhere where, let’s say the water might be slightly questionable, must be ruled out.

This news came hard. From the moment I first stepped into a hospital bed, my memories of past travels, and my dreams of future ones have sustained me. I haven’t had much energy over the last few days to celebrate, mostly because I’ve been sitting with this news and trying to digest it. I wasn’t going to share it. And then I remembered a friend, Eric, who came over the other night. We were talking and he said to me, “I’ll be honest, man, if it were me with Cancer right now, I’d be pissed off! Severely pissed off.” I told him about finding the ‘friendly’ in cancer and realizing all it’s given me. What I forgot to tell Eric was that, yes, in fact, it pisses me off too!! I am angry. I am very frustrated, especially right now. And I feel peaceful and calm about the future. In that beautiful human way, I am overjoyed at knowing that I’m in the last stretch of the intense rounds. I am also angry at the world for giving me, of all people, these specific parameters about what I can and can’t do. I’ll admit, it feels a little unfair. Ok, a lot. See, I’m even being more honest with myself as I go along!

Thank you all for trusting that I am healed. I was hospitalized again on Thursday due to more chemo pain. This time around, I feel very calm and at peace. I keep telling my pancreas, “you’re healed, man. You do whatever you need to do to get better, but we’re all here supporting you.” And you have been, every step of the way. You rock stars.